


Of the wind and sea

by FrenchCaresse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Growing Old, I dreamed of this story, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Some Sex, Time's passage, for real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchCaresse/pseuds/FrenchCaresse
Summary: John Watson meets a beautiful.... Being... Creature... Sea Thing... by the cliffs.Time passes.Life happens.But John always goes back to the cliffs where he calls It's name. Sherlock. And Sherlock always comes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dreamed of this story. For real. My head is always full of stories, but this is the first one I actually dreamed of. I know this concept has been done many times before, but I still hope to be able to convey the haunting, poignant beauty of my dream.
> 
> Mentions of an abusive childhood. Not canon. Not Beta'd. And also not tentacle porn, which was quite tempting.

John Watson was dying.

He was fourteen and stupid and he was going to drown.

Fuck.

Gangly teenage limbs still struggled, keeping him mostly afloat in the crashing grey waves. He couldn't feel his toes anymore. Or his  feet for that matter. The burn in his muscles was being replaced by a buzzing in his ears. The sea tossed him about.

He was dying.

The waters didn't care. Surpringly, neither did he.

Unexpected serenity filled him, replacing feeble hope of rescue. John was exhausted. He couldn't even see the reddish brown lumps of the shore anymore. But then, he couldn't see much; his eyelids were swollen from the salt water and the sunlight hurt his retinas.

How could the water be so cold, when the sun shone so golden?

John spluttered when spray smashed him in the face. Again. He briefly stopped struggling, the current tugging his hair in different directions kinda like Harry did when he was a kid.

Harry. _Fuck_. His head broke the surface with a reedy gasp.

Air. 

He had to try for Harry. 

John hurt. Everywhere.

He shouldn't have gone in. His aunt had warned him of the danger of under-currents. She was nice, and she smelled of cinammon. She hid her pity for him and his shitty home-life well, brightly insisting that he spend the summer at her cabin. It was more than most adults ever did for him. She's actually taken action to help, even if it was temporary, instead of shaking her head resignedly with sad eyes.

The numbness was spreading. Unless that was just fatigue. John couldn't even tell if his extremeities were moving anymore.

The oceanic taste, salty bitter like stale shrimp, clung to his palate and filled his nose.

He coughed, his lungs flaring with burning before that bright spot faded back into the continuous ache that envelopped him.

Fuck.

Vaguely remembering swim class, John clutched his knees to his chest and curled into a ball.

Spots danced in his vision. It was peaceful out here in the ocean. There was no up or down, no sense of direction at all. Only the endless moving moving moving of the water.

John let himself be moved. It was a relief to give in, to stop fighting the elements.

John had been fighting his whole life.

He let his tenuous grip on consciousness slide. He'd done his best.

John didn't even feel the water closing over his head.

His last stupid thought was of how he'd left his clothes all over the floor in his borrowed bedroom. Now his aunt, who had been so kind, would have to pick up after him.

...

Cold.

Hard.

John hurt; god did he hurt. The pain had literally torn him back into wakefulness.

He was so fucking cold. John had always imagined dying of hypothermia as a slow drift into unconscious. 

Not this painful torturous ordeal.

John hurt, everywhere. His very bones were shards of ice. Exhausted muscles quivered, terrible shivers wracking him. He couldn't breathe right and he was making weird grunting noises with every forced exhale.

It probably didn't help that he was lying in his clingy wet swim-trunks on frozen rock.

He wasn't dead after all. Unless he was in hell? 

Why was he lying on cold hard rock?

John's foggy brain registered the anomaly, but he was too frozen to properly think.

The air smelled of damp and dead fish. A drip of water echoed somewhere nearby.

John moaned and forced his puffy eyes open. It was dark, oppressively shadowy. Light rippled greenish to his left. A pool? 

Was he in some kind of cave?

John pushed himself up onto an elbow. He swung his heavy head slowly around.

A particularly violent tremor made his rib-cage contract. John's arm slipped on the wet rock and he banged his head hard in a firework of pain.

Darkness swallowed him again.

...

Sand.

Gritty disgusting bits of miniature rock that stuck evily to every pore of his skin. 

It was crunching in John's teeth, clogging in his nose.

At least he wasn't as cold anymore. The sun was beating down on his back, gradually thawing the goose-flesh away.

John floated, half-conscious. He had never been so grateful of anything as he was for the ambiant warmth.

Eventually, John had enough of the sand pressing into his cracked lips.

With a grunt, he rolled over. His muscles screamed and for an other endless time, John just rested on his back.

 _Thirsty_.

Now that he wasn't so cold, his throat was on fire. It felt dessicated, dried out. His face was bleeding, he thought and his tongue was swollen.

 _Thirsty_.

So fucking thirsty.

Eventually, the thirst forced him to sit up and take bleary stock of his surroundings. John realized was back on the secluded beach at the base of the cliffs he'd found that morning. In fact, he was lying about three feet away from his cheery orange towel. Which was inexplicable, really. Why lie face-first in the nasty sand when soft cotton was right next to him? His sneakers were still lined up beside it, as well as his back-pack.

John blinked.

His back-pack!

In a mad lurch, John scrambled half-walking half-crawling to the tattered kaki canvas. The water bottle was in the side pocket where he'd left it. John gulped greedily. He choked, spitting out sandy mud. Idiot.

John sputtered and paced himself, drinking carefully. The water was lukewarm and tasted of plastic, but to John it was marvelous. 

The hydration finally woke his synapses. Gingerly fingering the large, dirt-encrusted lump on his forehead, John observed his surroundings more clearly.

Last he remembered, he'd been drowning in the high sea. This was followed by a vague hallucination of a cave and now he was back where he'd started. Fucking weird.

The beach was exactly like he'd left it earlier; a small half-circle of rough sand surrounded by high rocky cliffs. Birds swerved screaming over his head. The wind just wouldn't stop. The water was still as inviting as earlier, deceptively calm and sparkling. A greyed piece of drift-wood twisted in curving angles, half-buried in the sand by a large rock.

John turned slowly back from checking out the lonely trail in the rugged tufted grasses he'd followed.

The rock.

John squinted, eyes running in the too-bright sun. He thought there might be something in the shadow of the rock.

Heaving himself to his feet, John shuffled closer.

Fuck he was beaten; every bit of his body was sore, from his quivery arms to his throbbing skull. One good look and then he was going back to his aunt's for a shower.

John blinked stupidly for a minute, not really processing what he saw. He hadn't really believed there might be something by the rock. Yet there was. A sleek silhouette that was perfectly motionless. Trying to make sense of the image, John stopped walking and squinted.

There was a.... Creature.... Being.... Thing sitting in the shadow of the rock. It was human-ish, but not for one second did John think it was human. Instinct in him screamed that this was something different.

As his eyes adjusted, John could make out a pale form, perfectly still. As he carefully crunched closer over loose pebbles, John saw smooth whitish skin and a long neck. The Thing was entirely naked, sitting cross-legged with it's too-long fingers steepled under it's chin. Wet hair clung in twisted ropes around a face whose bone structure was just a bit off. 

John should be afraid.

But he wasn't.

He was strangely attracted by the Thing, unexplainably fascinated. He stopped walking about two feet away, achingly dropping to a crouch. The Thing didn't move at all, but it's eyes were shiny and bright. It's head was cocked as it watched John observing it. 

For a long minute, John and the Thing stared at each other. 

Recognition stirred, timeless connection of the sort teenage John couldn't begin to grasp. He only knew he wasn't afraid. 

The creature blinked and John startled. It's eyes were too pale, almost grey, and it _blinked from the side_.

John jumped and landed inelegantly on his butt in the hard wet sand.

"You saved me." He whispered. 

John didn't understand why he knew, but he was certain of it. The creature had pulled him from watery death in the sea.

The Thing blinked again, making a darting  movement and angling it's too-grey face to the side.

Maybe it didn't understand him. Even as the thought occurred, John knew it was wrong. Intelligence, wild and ancient, blazed in those washed-out eyes.

"Thank you." He croaked. 

The Being didn't answer, it just watched him with wide shiny eyes.

John nodded, then began to shuffle back to the trail.

The Sea Creature never moved.

"I'll be back!" John called, just before he began the arduous climb back up to his bike. When he finally hauled himself up on top of the bluff, he couldn't tell because of the distance if the shadow of the rock was just a shadow, or if the Thing was still there, watching him.

...

It was two days later, near sunset, that John was able to return to the beach.

His aunt had freaked out upon hearing how he'd fell down a sandy slope. John had conveniently omitted the near-drowning experience, but his bashed up face had required an explanation. He'd been fawned over and pampered and plied with iced-tea until he was more annoyed than grateful. Finally, after supper with his aunt gone to book-club, he'd managed to return to the beach.

John hadn't been able to get the Creature out of his head. Subtle questionning of his aunt had brought no new knowledge of a legendary mythical being that other people might having seen nearby. This was the boring Atlantic Coast, not the Loch Ness, she'd laughed. John hadn't been able to get to the library because his aunt was making him rest. So he'd wondered and day-dreamed and grown antsy with curiosity until he thought he'd explode.

Now, with the wind whipping his hair and the sun setting over his shoulder, John pedaled as fast as he could.

The beach was deserted. Rapidly losing light, John was surprised by how intense the disappointment he felt was. Maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing, delirious from his head injury.  

A small movement to his left had John walking towards the tumbled rocks at the base of the cliffs. _Hope_. John ran faster, sneakers digging into wet sand that was packed into hard ripples.  _Hope_. His shadow streaked in front of him, crazy long and thin. John scrambled awkwardly up over the first rocks, heart beating out of his chest.

 _Hope_...

Yes!

The creature was there, tucked into a corner between two large rocks. John smiled blindingly then blushed, feeling his ears burn. 

"Hi."

John's voice sounded small, lost in the wind and the gulls screeching. John cleared his throat, carefully pulling himself up to perch on top of the flat rock. 

"I..." The Creature didn't make a sound, watching curiously as John worked his left shoe off to dump the sand out. The waves made rythmic wooshes on the beach; the water sounded sharper here, clapping and gurgling in the rocks around them.

"I know you probably don't understand..." John faltered, feeling stupid, but doggedly continued.

"I wanted to thank you. For saving my life. That was... a damn decent thing to do."

The Thing just looked at him quizzically. It was breathing lightly, rib-cage moving in silent expansions. John could see that it's hair was dryer than before, curly with hints of mesmerizing color in the setting sun. The orange streaks were definately painted by the light, but John thought the deeper purple and aquamarine tones threaded throughout might actually be genuine. His fingers prickled with the urge to touch, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

John curled his hands into fists. He wasn't really going start petting strange animals, that was just stupid. Besides, it might get mad and bite his hand off.

_I won't._

John jerked. He wondered if he was hallucinating. He thought he'd heard the Thing talk but he'd been staring right at it's face and those wide lips hadn't moved at all.

John stared intensely.

The Creature stared back silently.

"Did you just, I mean... can you... speak?" John sputtered.

The Creature didn't answer, reaching out and snatching John's forgotten shoe. It's long white fingers were agile, turning the battered sneaker over to peer at it in different angles. It batted at a dangling shoe-lace, then brought it's prize up to it's face. John thought maybe it was planning on chewing the fake leather; at least, it's mouth opened a bit. But it's nose ended up buried in the foot-hole and it huffed in surprise, then sneezed.

John snorted in amusement and he could have sworn that annoyance flashed in those alien eyes.

The Creature primly placed the shoe back onto the rock, movements graceful and fluid.

John grinned wide, something about the prickly attitude making the Thing's candid surprise funnier.

"Sorry." John said, squashing down the laughter in case he insulted the Being and it left. "Stinky feet. That's what happens when your shoes get wet then dry."

Luminous eyes, now greenish, regarded John before pointedly looking at it's own feet. The Thing didn't really have much in the way of eyebrows, but John could tell it was raising them, and it wiggled it's long toes. 

"Shut up." John grouched. "I'm sure _your_ feet don't stink."

The Thing was somehow managing to look superior despite not verbally gloating.

John rolled his eyes. The Creature snapped it's foot and John yelped because it's toes spread and fuck...

"They're webbed!" He gasped. "Your feet are webbed!"

_Efficient propulsion._

The Creature flapped it's feet around, showing off the thin skin stretching triangular and a bit blue between long digits.

John wasn't watching it's fucking feet. He was sure now.

John frowned at it.

"You CAN speak." He accused.

The Creature peered at him, a picture of wide-eyed innocence, and John had the distinct impression he was being made fun of.

"How come you speak English, anyway?" He grumbled.

John at least realized that it was highly unlikely an alien sea creature would coincidentally speak the same language he did.

_I. use. Thought-speach._

 The words were slow, seperated, as though the Creature was having a hard time articulating what it meant. It's voice in John's head was surprisingly deep in timbre, smooth and soothing.

"Oh." John digested the information for a minute. Some kind of telepathy, that actually made sense.

"What are you?" He asked eventually.

 _I am Sherlock._ The Sea-Creature answered _._

"I'm John." John said, automatically sticking his hand out. Sherlock stared at it, and John felt stupid. He was about to apologize, of course wild ocean animals didn't shake hands, when Sherlock reached out and carefully stroked his wrist. His touch was cool and dry, gentle. John let Sherlock explore his hand, poking between his fingers, making the joints move and and the tendons stretch, then tracing a scar on the palm. John watched Sherlock's profile as he concentrated, memorizing the texture of John's skin it seemed. His noise was pointed, almost dainty, and his cheeks were wide, jaw angular and sharp.

"What are you?" John asked again when his hand was returned to him after the inspection.

 _I am Sherlock_. There was impatience in the answer, as if Sherlock was annoyed at having to repeat himself even if his facial expression remained blank.

"I mean, what species are you?" At Sherlock's quizzical side gaze, John elaborated. "You're not human. Are you an alien? Or, like, a fish?"

Sherlock folded back into himself, knees drawn up to his chest and hands clenched loosely. There was nothing at his crotch, no genitals, just smooth skin. Not that John was really checking out his junk, but the position drew his eye there. Fuck.

John turned bright red and he'd almost forgotten Sherlock was still debating his question when he answered hesitantly.

 _I am of the Wind and Sea_.

And a great rush of images and impressions filled John's head. Racing through turquoise waters, streaming lightning fast. The wind making white-caps plume. Silver fish in confused shoals swirling ticklish. The sunlight gleaming off corals. A deep cold crevice, strange transparent creatures skittering vertically. Rolling thunderclouds, black and close enough to touch over the choppy water. And so many _many_ more.

John's eyes watered at onslaught.

"Sherlock." He whispered when he'd recuperated somewhat. 

Sherlock suddenly rose to his knees, slim and alert. His head watched the darkened ocean intently. John couldn't hear anything, but everything about Sherlock was vibrating in response to some inaudible call.

Sherlock cast a questionning glance at John.

"Go." John said, motioning towards the water. "We'll meet again."

Sherlock nodded and in a startling feat of impossible, easy strength, launched himself off the rock in a long arching dive. He disappeared without a splash and John watched the endless watery horizon for a long while after. Eventually, the cold wind worked into his clothes and he lumbered back up the beach.

"Sherlock." He whispered again, picking his bike up from the weeds.

...

The next day, John felt self-conscious and ridiculous, wandering around the beach calling.

"Sher-lock! Sheeeer-looock!"

He looked like someone who'd lost his dog, and he actually had to stop himself from whistling a time or two.

He hoped Sherlock didn't get mad at being summoned like a pet, but John couldn't think of any other way to alert him of his presence.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

It was useless, anyway. John threw a few stones into the sea with a plop. Sherlock was a wild thing. He had the whole ocean to explore. Why would he wait around for an insignificant human boy?

Dejected, John dragged his feet as he finally gave up. 

Fuck!

Sherlock was there, tall and poised like a dancer by the rocks. 

John's heart soared. He rushed up to Sherlock breathlessly.

"You came!"

A huge smile split his sunburned cheeks.

Sherlock's answering grin made John swallow hard. Small pointy white teeth filled his mouth; they looked scary and far from human. Dangerous. 

John shook his head at his own temerity.

So... maybe he was crazy. He didn't really care. He had _questions_.

...

It turned out Sherlock also had questions.

Many, many questions.

...

Sherlock also had answers. 

But he didn't have answers to _all_ of John's questions. 

And some of his answers made no sense to John.

For instance, when John asked him if he had a family, Sherlock was bewildered. It was two days later that he hesitantly informed John of the existence of what sounded like a brother. Sherlock certainly wasn't growing up with his family in the way John was.

And Sherlock was horrified by the glimpses of John's chaotic "home life" he gleaned from his thoughts.

Sherlock couldn't understand hate or purposeful cruelty. And yet, he was very pragmatic about others, like killing things. When John asked Sherlock what he ate, his thoughts filled with the pleasure of tearing the head off a live wriggly fish, tearing into the rubbery flesh beneath while a swirl of pink scented the air around his head with coppery blood.

It completely put John off from his nice ham sandwich.

Sherlock had no concept of time either. He measured time's passage in the shifting salinity of the dark depths and the mating calls of whales.

It made arranging meetings complicated.

In the end, the simplest way was for John to wander the beach and call his name.

Sherlock almost always came when John called. His explanation of how he heard him made no sense though. John had the impression that sometimes, Sherlock had travelled unbelievably far away when _the wind found him with John's call._ Whatever that meant.

Anyway, the rest of the summer passed in a bubble of Sherlock for John. He saw him as often as he could. When the weather, or his Aunt, did not permit him to escape, John was still obsessed. He researched sea myths and legends at the library, read encyclopedia entries on any marine animals he could find and doodled Sherlock's form onto yellowed paper. Sometimes, he even dreamed he was swimming carefree with Sherlock in crystal waters.

John and the Sea Sprite got to know each other and their respective worlds through the strange Thought-Speach language Sherlock used.

Sherlock shared visions of the ocean,forests of sea-weed and dolphins birthing and luminescent jelly-fish dancing. Every glimpse unlocked fascinating insight into what went on in the vast liquid depths.

John felt boring and ordinary by comparison, but Sherlock was easily mesmerized by simple things.

He loved any objects John brought. The back-pack, with it's pockets and zippers, provided an afternoon of tugging and twisting that ended with it's contents strewn in the sand and Sherlock's head buried in it's depths. John laughed until his ribs hurt.

After that, he brought Sherlock stuff. Anything, really. Empty containers. Pretty marbles. A tooth-brush. They kicked a ball around. His Rubik's cube, once Sherlock understood it's purpose, disappeared to some nook hidden in the rocks. Buttons were an infinite source of fascination.

Summer was ending and John had worn a button-down wool vest.

Sherlock spent the entire afternoon poking the wooden disks through the slits. Sometimes, he deliberately buttoned it lopsided, fingering the soft folds of fabric. Once, he cracked a button between his teeth.

John was sad. He was leaving the next day, going back to the hell that was his parent's place.

Sherlock didn't understand sadness. 

It was annoying John.

His strange friend understood that they wouldn't be seeing each other for many months. But he just shrugged and tried to button the vest with his agile feet.

John flopped onto his back, sighing tremulously and fighting tears. 

Sherlock's hand touched his shoulder, quick and firm.

 _You call. I come._ He said.

John nodded.

"Okay." he rasped.

...

Sherlock's promise kept John going through out the year.

Mopping up puke, getting slapped about, trying to study despite the shouts and slurred swearing...

John kept Sherlock's words close, buried in his heart like a golden flame.

Sherlock would come.

...

Returning to his Aunt's was like taking his first breath in a year. Even from his bedroom, he could smell the sea. The wild wind swept the yellowed curtains. 

It seemed as though the room had gotten smaller. John knew that it was because he'd grown ferociously in the last year. His bones ached with it sometimes, and he often tripped over his stupid too-big feet.

Sherlock came when John called. He looked just the same as before.

He wheezed with strange chirping laughter at the sight of John, pinching at his arm-pit hair and imitating John's cracking voice. John tried to ask about Sherlock's age, but all he got was a distinct impression that despite his boyish frame the Ocean Creature was quite ancient.

Of course, HE wouldn't be plagued by puberty. 

John pouted; his heart was overflowing with affection and the overwhelming sense of belonging, of being home.

Sherlock's eyes were a vibrant bottle-blue that day, and he smiled as much as John. 

They quickly settled into their routine from the previous summer, spending as much time together as John could manage.

Sherlock taught him how to swim; John taught him how to make sand castles.

John was amazed that Sherlock, a creature of the beach, had never attempted to build something with the sand. He kinda understood Sherlock's viewpoint, that _the beach was the beach and the ocean shaped the sand_. He could even understand that creating a sand city was a pointless waste of time, since the tide washed it all out within hours. 

Yet Sherlock went along with John's plan, eyes shimmering as he discovered that his webbed hands were particularly efficient at shovelling mud.

They built endless creations that summer; castles and moats and roads and trenches and deep deep holes.

Things were simple. Words were fewer that sunny summer, steady companionship replacing the excitement of discovery.

The awkward teenager and the strange sea sprite, creators of worlds. Together.

Come nightfall, the sea erased them all.

...

Sherlock gave John a shell on the last day of summer. 

It was a pretty cream colored one, twisting small but perfect. The inside glimmered in purple and emerald, like Sherlock's hair.

John cried a bit, impulsively hugging Sherlock. Sherlock stiffened in surprise. They hadn't touched at all during their months together. John needed it though, right now; needed to convince himself of how solid Sherlock was, how _real_.

Sherlock eventually molded himself to John's front with a pleased purr.

Hugging Sherlock was not like hugging a human. He was denser somehow, more compact. His skin was firm and smooth and his hair smelled like the wind.

John waved from the top of the cliff, watching the dark humanoid form threading water until he blinked and Sherlock was gone.

...

During the next year, John discovered girls and sex.

He was sixteen, mostly unsupervised, and he experimented liberally.

He got a job and was busy with school, filling every free night with dates.

Things went from bad to worse at home, with Harry coming out. John was happy to get away to his Aunt's at the same time Harry moved out in a rush. _Let his parents drown their sorrows alone._

John had Sherlock.

He barely even felt the fist connecting with his cheekbone the night before he left, making his head snap back. Clutched in tight his left hand was Sherlock's shell. It's texture was cold and smooth, the sharp edge pressing against his palm. _Soon_.

His Aunt's lips tightened at the sight of his formidable black-eye, and John had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat.

Sherlock took it even worse. 

His gentle fingers prodded John's yellowing bruise immediately after the first gleeful hello.

John tried to keep the truth from him, instinctive victim-covering-for-the-abuser bullshit his shrink frowned about.

But Sherlock dug his father's furious twisted-red face right from his thoughts.

He pulled away then, and it was the first time Sherlock scared John. His slim body drew up, vibrating, and he made a hissing sound rather like a pissed-off cat. His pointed teeth were bared and his pupils half-swallowed up his eyes, turning them pitch-black and frightening.

"Ssshhh. Sherlock." John soothed in a small voice.

Sherlock's snarling face turned toward him and John remembered the violent bloodied fish image. Sherlock was not as inoffensive as he seemed, and John was certain that if his Father ever came here, he would be in grave danger.

"It's okay. It's over. I... I'm here now."

Sherlock sat reluctantly, tight as a bow-string, when John patted the sand by him. 

He leaned heavily into John's side and John petted him until he stopped quaking.

"He's far away now. We have all summer." John nudged Sherlock with his cold nose until his oceanic friend squeaked and things were all right.

It wasn't until three days later that John's words really sank into his own heart.

Sherlock held him through the storm of tears, making distressed keening noises until John wiped his face and declared he was better.

And he was.

It was a lazy summer, after the hectic year. Most of it was spent lounging, sprawled either on the beach or on the rocks.

It was comfortable.

They touched. Shyly at first, until the contact became familiar and comfortable.

Back rubs, lazy hair petting; John had never realized how starved for affection he was until it was freely given.

They spent a lot of time idly day-dreaming, cuddled together.

John and Sherlock.

Together.

Safe. 

John got a few inconvenient erections, but he ignored them until the discomfort passed.

...

Sherlock had no belly button.

It was a strange fact John couldn't get over. He'd asked Sherlock about his birth, but the Sea Creature had been evasive.

Then Sherlock had been an absolutely insufferable pain-in-the-butt when John had been forced to admit that he didn't remember his own birth, or _before_ , whatever Sherlock meant by that. As if that solved anything. Sherlock rumbled triumphantly and John knew he wouldn't pry any more information from him.

John had long ago concluded that Sherlock wasn't a mammal, having no nipples or genitals. Maybe he'd hatched? Who were his parents and why had they abandonned him?

Sherlock only repeated that he _was of the wind and sea_ , then piled sand onto John's shorts so he'd been forced to go for a swim or die from crotch friction-burn.

...

The next summer, an old lady bought the house right across the road from the trail to John's beach. She claimed the beach as her own and, to add anoyance, her trio of yipping dogs invaded the quiet space. Since Sherlock refused to turn up when another human might see him, John despaired that he might not see him at all.

Then Sherlock showed him the caves, and the thin trail to reach them from land.

Sherlock and John's relationship changed setting. Theirs was a world of rock and echoes now.

There were ledges where the sun beat almost too hot and small wet crevices. There were shallow pools filled with slimy algae and darting shrimp things. There was one significantly larger cave that opened at the base of a cliff, with a pool of water reflecting green off the high shiny walls. When John first sat on the broad flat floor, he suddenly remembered the fever dream from his long ago drowning.

"You brought me here. The first time." He accused, voice resonating hollow and too loud.

 _Apologies_. Sherlock answered, cupping his cheek.

_Miscalculation. I thought you would be safe here. I had not included internal temperature regulation in my parameters._

"It's fine." John grumbled. "We're not all amphibian like you."

Sherlock grinned, but he was still worried. He didn't stop bugging John until he'd brought down a blow-up mattress and an armful of sleeping bags. The cozy nest he created almost compensated for having to lug the bulky items one by one down a rocky precipice.

...

It was in the weaving emerald shadows that John kissed Sherlock for the first time.

It was an accident.

John had fallen asleep with Sherlock pressed to his back, contentedly toying with his hair. He'd awoken from a dream of steamy sex and a beautiful red-head with a raging hard-on and a warm body in his arms. Without really thinking, he'd pressed his mouth to the lips hovering over him, running his tongue along the seam. 

Sherlock gave a violent shiver and a surprised sound tore from his throat.

John jerked fully awake, realization sinking in.

Fuck.

"Sorry. Sherlock. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I ... "

Sherlock's wide eyes were almost colorless with shock. They closed as Sherlock made his "concentrating" face.

Fucking fuck fuck fuck.

John was in trouble. He batted at Sherlock's shoulder, trying to twist away.

"Get out of my head!" John yelped, anger and adrenaline making his heart pound wildly.

Too late.

Sherlock remained lying mostly over him, and the bastard could be heavy as fuck when he wanted. Add the fact that John didn't dare struggle too much lest his aching dick make contact with Sherlock's body and he was trapped.

Goddamn it.

John settled for glaring, trying to prevent the blush from rising up his neck.

 _You liked that._ Sherlock stated.

John licked his lips nervously and didn't answer; his prick twitched at the taste of salt and Sherlock.

 _Mating_. Sherlock murmured curiously as pornographic images pulled from his own memory floated without his permission through John's mind. Sherlock was shifting through his thougts, not even trying to be subtle. John's dick was starting to leak pre-cum, shit; his arousal was growing worse with the mental stimulation. John fisted his hands, not trusting himself if he let them rest on Sherlock's tempting naked body.

 _Oh_. Sherlock froze.

John belatedly realized that he'd allowed that last thought to form while Sherlock was buried in his mind.

"I'm aroused, Sherlock." John rushed to say. "Don't worry about it. I know it's not your thing. I would never..."

John's cock flexed hopefully. 

"I'll take care of it later, I just need a bit of space right now." Space in my head, and space to calm my body, he completed silently.

 _Allow me._ Sherlock said.

And before John had even understood, they were kissing again. It was violent and uncoordinated and John initiated deeper tongue action, forgetting about Sherlock's razor-sharp teeth.

Taking a break to drag a sharp breath in, John watch Sherlock with heavy eyes. The Sea Creature was breathing fast, and his eyes glinted almost lilac. His mobile face was painted with fascination.

He blinked, and to John the side-to-side flicker was as normal as the human motion.

Sherlock's tongue was obscenely pink when it darted out to lick his curvy top lip.

 _I like_. He thought into John's ear. John's dick agreed.

John's voice was rough as he chuckled and proclaimed. "Kissing is a yes then."

They kissed some more.

A lot more.

It was as if Sherlock, discovering the sensation, meant to explore every facet of it during his first experience. Soft, tender romantic pecks. Smiling licks and smacking raspberries. Fierce tonge battles that had John grunting against the urge to just fucking touch himself, already.

Sherlock was curled over John's torso like a cat, and he was making soft sounds John had never heard before.

Finally, John couldn't take anymore.

"Enough." He moaned, pushing at Sherlock's shoulder. "I need a break, I can't..."

 _I can't go on kissing you or I'll go mad._ He didn't complete. He prided himself on his self-control, but a man had his limits. His entire groin ached with unsatisfied lust.

Sherlock moved back reluctantly, mewling, and his elbow landed right on John's agonized dick.

John groaned at the unexpected contact after hours of denial, reflexively curling up in search of friction.

 _John?_ Sherlock asked.

John took a deep shaky breath, forcing a feeble laugh.

"S'okay." He said, tracing patterns between Sherlock's shoulder blades.  "Human reaction to arousal. Don't worry about it."

 _But you hurt!_ There was a crease between Sherlock's eyes. 

John planted a final kiss on his friend's lips, because how could he deny that when Sherlock was _in his fucking head_?

Sherlock uncoiled fluidly, lying full length next to John on the crappy air mattress.

 _I hurt too._ He admitted, watching John's face with his shifting sea-glass eyes.

"You do?" John husked, pushing up onto an elbow.

He ran his hand lightly over Sherlock's smooth front. God, he wanted to kiss him everywhere. 

Sherlock shivered. He nodded seriously.

He wrapped his larger hand over John's and brought them to his lower belly.

"Here?" John asked, pressing into firm muscular abdomen a bit.

Sherlock shook his head, _no_ , and sucked on his swollen bottom lip.

"Can I... do anything to help?" John asked, hoping hoping _hoping_.

Sherlock looked torn.

"Where?" John whispered.

Sherlock hesitated, then he nodded; it was a quick darting movement accompanied by an almost panicked inhale.

He moved their hands lower. Not quite between his legs; about where the pelvic mound would be situated on a human by John's estimate. Sherlock was making a barely audible humming sound, and he tossed his hair agitatedly.

"It hurts here?" John couldn't even breathe, he was so aroused.

Sherlock's hips arched, his legs widening as his pelvis pushed up, against John's warm hand.

The humming was louder. 

John felt muscles flex under his palm. A dull throbbing, like a bulging or maybe a nudging.

Sherlock closed his eyes and threw his head back, body bowing. John wanted to kiss him, sooooo bad. 

He stretched up but when his hand moved from Sherlock's stomach, his friend's clutched his wrist in a violent grip.

"Sherlock?" John could tell he was causing his friend's pain to increase. Sherlock quivered all over and his breath whistled through his nose.

"I don't want to hurt you. I'm going to take my hand away."

Sherlock shook his head frantically, _nonono_ ; his hips rolled in a helpless humping motion against John's heated palm. His mouth opened then closed; finally he nodded unhappily. He released John's wrist and the human was able to lift his hand off.

John's mouth dropped open. Sherlock's cream-colored front was no longer smooth. A hairless slit had appeared, pinkish and swollen around the edge of the lips.

Blood engorgement, John analysed automatically. Arousal.

Mostly though, he was busy processing that...

"You're a female?" He blurted a bit hysterically. And why not, John didn't know why he'd always assumed Sherlock was male.

John received a hesitant feeling of confusion. Great. Sherlock didn't understand the gender binary as defined by humans.

John couldn't even think coherently right now, much less try to explain abstract human constructs.

Sherlock stared blankly at John, then down his flat body. They _both_ stared at the slit that hadn't been there a minute ago. It flexed under their gaze, glistening a bit with lubrication and Sherlock made a pained sound. 

"Gosh." John exclaimed. "Can I..."

He trailed off, dragging a gentle finger on firm skin; a slow arc from Sherlock's hip-bone to the orifice.

Sherlock shuddered and his eyes widened.

Still moving slowly, mesmerized, John gently slid two fingers into Sherlock's pussy.

Sherlock shrieked and pushed him away, tumbling John off the bouncy mattress and onto hard stone.

John sat stunned for a second. Shaking his head to recover, he climbed back onto the bed, being careful not to touch Sherlock.

He started apologizing profusely. He shouldn't have done that, he should have asked for Sherlock's consent, he hadn't been thinking. God, he had violated Sherlock because of stupid curious instinct that drew his fingers into the mysterious slit.

John's eyes drifted down in abject shame, he couldn't look at his friend's stricken expression. Bile was in his throat, horror at what he'd done making his face twist when he noticed the... throbbing red cock bobbing over Sherlock's belly?

What the fuck?

John nearly fell of the mattress again.

The slit was gone, replaced by a slim hard penis. There were no visible testicles.

John rubbed his eyes, baffled and Sherlock finally quit making the high-pitched noise.

"Um." John said.

 _Yes_. Sherlock answered.

"Time-out?" John suggested. Sherlock agreed, even though he didn't really know what a time-out was.

He dove straight into the dark pool. John put his feet in, but it was fucking cold. 

Looking more like his usual inquisitive self, Sherlock soon emerged, dripping and alert. 

His cock, vag, _whatever_ ,  was gone. John's cock had flagged considerably due to shock, but he sported quite the pair of blue balls.

"So. Retractable cock, then huh?" John eventually asked. He flapped his feet in the water, listening to the echoes.

 _Yes_. Sherlock said.

"Weird." John told his friend.

The feeling of little brown fish nibbling on his toes filled John's mind, making him squirm. The vision of a soft floppy penis bobbing in still waters followed.

"Ha." John snorted."Yeah, okay, I get it."

Sherlock looked smug.

"So you got aroused by our kissing." He confirmed.

Sherlock nodded. His wet hair looked like black ropes in the dim light.

"You.... were holding it in?" John guessed. That would explain why the slit had appeared but not the dick. Also, the flexing he'd felt.

Sherlock nodded, sucking on his lower lip; his hand pressed to his belly and he winced. 

"It hurt? Holding back?" John guessed again. Sherlock inhaled sharply and nodded vigorously. John couldn't even begin to imagine...

"Why?" He asked. "If it hurt, why not let go? It's just me, we trust each other? Right?"

And yeah, that smarted, the idea that Sherlock didn't trust him. Although maybe he was right, given John's horrible misconduct.

Sherlocked kneeled up and grabbed John's head with both hands. 

DO NOT COPULATE WITH HUMANS.

It was a voice in John's head, but it wasn't Sherlock's voice. It echoed firm and authoritarian, followed by a land-slide of images. Girls, many naked girls; John got the feeling that this was happening long ago. John watched, no, _participated_ in passionate fucking that blurred into a heavily pregnant woman. He heard pained shrieks and death, blood pouring in gushes from a gaping womb. Deformed strange babies, dying in a gurgle. Absolute horror filled him.

DO NOT COPULATE WITH HUMANS.

Sherlock let him go and John gathered himself for a bit.

"Collective memory of some kind, is it?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well." John said once he'd recuperated enough.

"The bad news is; I'm human. The good news is; I'm not a girl, so no devil babies."

Sherlock shook his head agressively.

 _No copulating._ He emphasized in his normal deep thought-voice.

"Okay." John nodded. He lay back down on the mattress.

"I can show you all kinds of things that don't involve fucking."

Sherlock's head perked up and his smile as he crawled closer was positively sinful.

...

The rest of the summer was pretty much all sex after that.

...

John returned to the beach on a windy damp day in October.

The sand was compacted hard under his feet and the long grass was brown and crunchy. The beach looked even more forelorn and wild; the ocean rippled steel-grey.

Sherlock came when he called. 

The cold didn't seem to bother him.

"I enrolled in the army." John announced.

"They'll pay for me to go to med school. It's... it's the only way out." John was trying to convince himself as much as Sherlock.

Sherlock's vision of the army -obscenely huge boats that creaked and leaked petrol and rumbled so loud they made his teeth hurt- was surprising and not easily changed.

In the end, John left it at "The land army, Sherlock."

And they hugged for a long time.

 _I shall wait._ Sherlock thought at him. _Call and I will come._

John sniffled and wiped his wet cheeks the whole drive back.

He felt like he was burying his childhood, as though some part inside him was dying.

He would come back, he decided.

For Sherlock.

....

John thought very little of Sherlock in the following years.

Basic soldier training was gruelling and John was too exhausted to dream.

Med school was challenging but for the first time in his life, John felt serene. He was in the right place, doing something useful. While other residents complained about being used like slaves, John kept his mouth shut and learned. 

Then he got deployed.

There was a brief period filled with too many woman to count. One drunken night, John wondered if Sherlock was lonely, all alone in the ocean currents.

He decided that no, probably not.

Free and gloriously untamed, Sherlock was... Sherlock.

...

As he gained experience and a reputation as a competent physician, John was given more and more responsabilities.

He got sent further and further towards the Front, encountering more and more horrendous injuries, and more and more sand.

So much sliding sand, reflecting the cruel sun.

John missed the cool water of the sea as much as Sherlock when he thought of it.

...

When a wounded soldier who had been found a week after his plane crashed in the dunes babbled about a mysterious woman with gold skin and snake eyes, John did not laugh like the others.

His hands worked diligently, getting the iv line in, and he nodded quietly.

He wondered if the desert, like the sea, held it's own secrets.

...

John's world exploded in pain and abruptly darkened. Everything blurred together in a haze of horror and exhaustion. Surgery and physiotherapy and bandage changes were all varying degrees of red-hot torture. He was still dazed when he received his honorable discharge notice; the long plane ride to London felt like a hallucination.

John settled back into civilian life, but he felt as though he wasn't present in his own life.

John was dead.

Yet bafflingly, he still breathed. The only things he felt these days were acute bursts of trauma that disrupted the fog of depression; bubbles of the war filled with fear and blood and death that had his heart racing and his every mucle tensing.

He had completely forgotten about the beach, and Sherlock, for months of grey existing.

It was his sister who asked him what he meant to do about the house. John had raised an eyebrow, picking at his chips. Apparently, he had inherited his aunt's house while he was deployed. John didn't know if the letter had never reached him or if he hadn't registered it's contents.

John's therapist didn't want him to go. She was worried that seeing the only place he had ever been happy all deserted and empty might worsen his mood. 

John went anyway.

She didn't understand.

It wasn't the house that made the beach magical, it was Sherlock.

...

John stood on top of the cliff for a long time, letting the spring wind whip his clothes. 

He couldn't make himself go down to the beach.

In the end, he limped back to the rental car and drove to the house.

For the rest of the week, John cleaned the property and fought with himself.

He couldn't go down to the beach; _he couldn't._

It wasn't because he was afraid Sherlock wouldn't come.

It was because he worried the ragged shell his psyche had become might disappoint Sherlock.

...

On the tenth day, John called.

Sherlock came.

He looked just like always, lithe and graceful.

John felt extremely ashamed of his battered ugly body in comparison. Gone was the sparkling innocence of youth; the war had changed him. He was so tired. He hated himself for being weak.

Sherlock was magnificent and ever-young. He would take one look at John and leave, most likely.

John believed it too. Until he dared look into Sherlock's eyes. They reflected endless deep amethyst, drinking John in with a rapturous look of wonder.

 _You came!_ Sherlock thought-spoke; hearing the soothing voice in his head made John shudder. The words sank in, and so did their meaning.

You came. John realized it had always been the other way around. Sherlock had missed him, Sherlock still looked at him with wonder and joy.

Sobs choked John and he pressed his fist hard to his mouth. It was too much, for one day. He didn't dare let go.

Sherlock cocked his head. There was a clump of sea-weed on his shoulder.

 _What did you bring me?_ He teased, eyes soft and understanding. _I have heard of a most inventive thing called velcro._

John laughed through his tears.

He knew then that he would be all right.

He could get better.

He would get better.

He had Sherlock.

...

John settled into his aunt's house for the summer. It was _his_ house now.

He saw Sherlock every day.

Slowly, the war receded from the front of his thoughts. Nightmares grew fewer.

The war was still there, it would always haunt him; but it no longer swamped John, seeping into all the crevices of his mind until there was room for nothing else. 

John finally connected to the world around him; he especially liked being hugged against Sherlock by the crackling little campfires he'd started making to ward off the evening chill.

By the end of the summer, John felt stable enough to go back to Lindon and apply for a job.

... 

John's life was simple.

Work. Pub with friends. Telly.

Every week-end he could manage, and for one whole glorious month every summer, he escaped to the beach house and Sherlock.

John liked his new life.

Even if it was unexciting.

He started blogging about his boring life on the suggestion of his therapist. He surprised himself by gaining some internet friends and a handful of steadfast followers.

John was settled.

Harry commented on it when they met for dinner. She also tried to match him with endless women. John played along, but he wasn't interested.

He had Sherlock.

He was happy for his sister, who had found a strong supportive girlfriend and finally quit drinking. 

He didn't want a wife.

He smiled when people poked fun at his old bachelor ways.

John was not alone.

He had a secret. He had Sherlock.

...

John grew greyer and softer as the years flowed like the waves.

Sherlock remained the same; ever curious, always affectionate.

...

When John retired, he moved into his aunt's house.

He made a comfortable place for himself in the sleepy town.

He saw Sherlock every day. They didn't talk much now. They just enjoyed each other's presence.

It was six months after he settled in that John began to dream of the sea.

...

More years passed.

Time was strange. It seemed that entire years passed in a breathless flash. Yet every day stretched impossibly; waking up too early, feeding his birds, all the repetitive chores necessary for domestic life seemed to never end. John's long evenings were spent watching the clouds roll over the bay. 

Aches and minor issues settled in, John's aging body slowly losing vitality.

...

John bought a boat.

He spent hours carefully building crude wooden steps down to the beach. Having walked with a cane all those years had put undue strain on his good knee. And just like that, suddenly his good knee was his worst knee and going down to the beach was such an effort he wouldn't do it more than once a day.

That was why John got a boat.

He went down once, spent the day on the water and tackled the arduous climb back up only at suppertime.

The boat was a beautiful thing, hand-crafted of varnished golden wood. She was small, but water-tight and maneuverable.

Every day, John took it out to the ocean and Sherlock joined him. They talked more again these days; Sherlock's bobbing head effortlessly followed the boat, answering John's questions about the sea-life with half phrases and crystal clear image projections.

John bought fishing gear, to maintain appearances and explain why he went out.

...

John dreamed of the sea every night now. 

...

At Harry's funeral, John experienced the same feeling of isolated distance, of _disconnection_ , that he had wallowed in after the war.

He sat in his corner and sipped weak tea, watching Harriet's foster kids console her grieving wife.

He remembered once thinking how Sherlock's existence was lonely, on his own in the sea.

John was beginning to realize that human life wasn't any different. Sure, there were tentative communities, friends and family clinging to each other. Connections were tenuous, sometimes faked. In the end, every human was born and died alone.

At least Sherlock was free. 

...

John made his decision six months later.

The sea called.

He informed Sherlock, who surprisingly didn't object much. 

...

John spent his last summer setting his things in order. Papers, a pre-paid stone by Harriets.

He got rid of a lot of superfluous stuff; he gave possessions and money to those he cared for.  Every item, every signature, made John feel lighter. 

Soon.

He put post-it notes on the back of specific furniture and paintings he owned. Simple yellow squares with the name of the person he felt should inherit them, hidden. 

...

The sea came to him, sometimes even during the day. He would wake with a start, cat-napping in his armchair and dreaming of vibrant coral reefs.

...

The doctor found a lump.

John refused further investigations. 

Summer was almost over anyway.

...

There was one last thing John needed to do.

Surprisingly, Sherlock protested vehemently.

He tried the "Do not copulate with humans" thing. John snorted. Even if he had been capable of birthing babies, he was so old and decrepit it wouldn't have been possible.

Sherlock couldn't understand why John wanted to do such an act. It was unatural to him.

John stubbornly argued. It was the ultimate act between lovers, and John wanted to give it to Sherlock.

The Sea Creature finally yielded. 

Sherlock was afraid he would hurt John's fragile elderly body.

John researched the issue. His first quest led him to porn; retouched videos of strapping young men with horse-dicks blazed over his computer screen.

All that young flesh titillated him, although he'd always considered himself straight; John resolved to have a last wank, for old times sake.

It involved getting a prescription and then a rather embarassing trip to the chemist. The man cleared his throat too much, attempting to remain professional. John grinned widely at him; they played bridge together on saturday nights. Let him wonder.

John took the pill, then fell asleep waiting for it to take effect. The tightness in his pants woke him and after searching for his damned glasses, John finally got down to it.

It was marvelous. It felt familiar, just like all the other times in his life John had done this. He took it slowly, stroking deliberately and using quality lube; reveling in the physical pleasure until he orgasmed weakly all over his salt and pepper bush.

A wank was a wank, John decided, wether you were eighteen or eighty-one. It felt good.

The only novelty was that this was the first time John had stroked himself to the sight of a dude buggering another man's ass.

...

John bought a set of plugs from an online shop.

Then he realized that he was not limber enough, what with his stiff shoulder, arthritic hips and rounded spine, to actually _use_ them on himself. 

Well, fuck.

...

On the last day, John looked around his cozy house one last time. Then he slowly, painfully, descended the worn stairs one final time. Sherlock was waiting on the beach; he helped John and his bag into the boat.

...

It was the first time John had reached their cave by boat. It was actually much simpler than the vertiginous trail he used to take, and John wondered why he hadn't used the method before.

Watching Sherlock pump up the air mattress had John giggling uncontrollably. Those long, strong limbs bent and straightened rythmically, working the long tube of the pump. Like a jerky puppet, or maybe a grass-hopper. John wheezed, wrinkled face alight with joy. He savored these last minutes, sitting in the boat with his hands resting in a familiar pose over the cane between his legs. He supposed he should be grave, solemn, since he was going to die. Then he shook off the pre-conceived notion. The flame of life still burned in him. Why wouldn't he be allowed to laugh?

The mood grew serious when Sherlock helped him out, then cast the boat adrift.

They watched it until the lapping water took it out of the cave entrance.

Let whoever found it deduce what had happened to John. Everybody for miles around would recognize the boat as his. He had conveniently left his wallet and ID in the box under the seat too, just in case it drifted unexpectedly far.

 _You are sure?_ Sherlock asked.

"Yes." John nodded. "For both things. You'll have to get me ready though."

He'd been prepared for argumentation, but Sherlock was committed now.

He undressed John slowly, reverently.

He kissed his blushes away, running gentle hands over wrinkled skin.

Every motion Sherlock made was filled with such worship that eventually John forgot to be ashamed of his blemishes and loose flesh. It had been years since he'd last been naked with Sherlock.

He was warm under the blankets of their cocoon, despite the dampness inherent to the cavern, just like decades ago. John twisted impatiently, getting on all fours.

Sherlock slowly kissed down his back, then surprised John by putting his mouth right to John's entrance. Whether he had taken the idea from John's porno mind or if it was spontaneous, John couldn't tell.

John kindled under the insistent lapping. The wet, probing sucks were something he'd never experienced. _God_. Forgotten fires built until John groaned and spread his legs more.

Sherlock finally pulled away with a satisfied purr. He carefully breached John using the smallest plug. It didn't hurt, although it made him shudder. John almost regretted Sherlock having webbed fingers. He wanted more connection than plastic, but reminded himself that this was the means, not the end.

Sherlock worked his ass well, sending little shocks of pleasure up John's knobby spine. 

By the time Sherlock was using the bigger plug, John was gasping his name. He was too hot, fuck, and the sex toy was making pleasure crest and tighten _inside_ him. Like Sherlock would soon be.

Sherlock was methodical, meticulous about stretching John even if his old friend grumbled and complained for him to "just get to it, damnit." He wasn't a blushing virgin. This was ridiculous.

With John finally taking the biggest plug, near incoherent and writhing, Sherlock realized his old lover was spontaneously erect for the first time in years.

This led to a thorough blow-job, just like the old days. John cursed and trembled deliciously whenever Sherlock tapped the base of the plug stuffing his hole.

Finally, a grinning Sherlock carefully positioned John on his side. He was aiming for maximum comfort with the least strenous position, but he highly doubted John was very grateful or even noticed the attention by this point.

Sherlock carefully coaxed the plug out and replaced it with slender hard cock.

The pleased, high-pitched whirring sound started in spite of himself.

So hot and silky. John's insides gripped Sherlock, coaxing him into movement. The sensations on his cock were overwhelming.

 _John_. Sherlock understood John's insistance now. Even as he began to fuck him, watching his engorged penis emerge then disappear, Sherlock couldn't believe John was doing this for him.

John sobbed in pleasure, breath hiccuping with Sherlock's every stroke.

The Ocean Fae took his lover firmly, rutting instinctly. Sherlock tried to temper his urges, but John egged him on. John refused to be passive and romantic, twisting back and chanting Sherlock's name.

Firmly grounded in his body one last time.

John and Sherlock. Connected.

All too soon, Sherlock spent himself, amazed. John had been fisting himself for a while now, and he shuddered as he came.

 _Tell me._ Sherlock thought-spoke while he enjoyed a few more moments buried in John as his heart stopped racing. _Why did we wait all those years to do this?_

And he sounded so annoyed with himself that John laughed until he choked and his convulsions squeezed Sherlock's dick out in a wet slide.

...

 _Ready?_ Sherlock asked a long while later.

John took a deep breath. He wasn't actually afraid of dying. 

He'd had a good life, he thought.

Now he was ready.

He had Sherlock.

The sea called.

John was finally done resisting.

He stepped into the dark waters. He didn't feel the cold.

Emerging into the sparkling sun after the enveloping darkness of the cave was almost too much. Sherlock squeezed John's hand harder, letting him lead. John waded deeper.

Sherlock circled his strong arms around him when the waves grew waist high.

Then John's feet went out from under him. He didn't tumble or fall.

Sherlock had him. John stopped resisting. He was at peace.

John could feel the water slicing over him. The sun glimmered prettily over the surface, so high above his head, as Sherlock began to swim in powerful strokes.

His lungs began to burn. He stretched up to kiss Sherlock with his last breath.

John was not afraid.

Sherlock held him.

...

...

...

The reader set his cup of coffee down, shocked as he stared at the computer screen. The last blog entry was an automatic notification informing him of the author's passing.

The cop swallowed. He'd grown rather fond of the old man. He had a brutally honest style of writing and a sense of humor that was refreshing when compared to the self-entitled nonsense some of the younger generation spewed.

Scrolling back up, the reader saw that John's last real blog entry was a single line quote from someone he'd never heard of.

 

"I am of the Wind and Sea."

                         -Sherlock.

 


	2. optional epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I purposely left the ending undefined, so that each person can paint it with their own imagination. Here is a glimpse into mine.

The fisherman leaned against the railing. He thought he'd seen two humanoid forms racing through the deep water to his left. 

He leaned forward to see better, yelping as the wind tried to snatch his cap right off his head. Firmly screwing the worn hat deeper, the fisherman already knew there would be nothing there when he was able to focus on the water.

It was the third time he'd seen the pair, fleeting glimpses of a watery ballet.

They looked happy and free, whatever they were.

He scratched his beard, before stretching to crack his back. His grand-ma always said the sea held magic humans would never understand. 

The fisherman was a pragmatic man.

He turned his thoughts away from weird oceanic mysteries and towards the family waiting for him at home. The motor coughed to life.

He hoped his wife had made soup. And he hoped the boys had been better behaved. He rather doubted it; they were impossible, the pair of them. The fisherman breathed deep of the humid air.

He wished his kids never had to grow up.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do leave your thoughts. Posting something... different... like this makes me very anxious.
> 
> Xxx
> 
> FrenchCaresse


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